


malo y loco

by empiremind (justlikeabaroness)



Category: Pentagon (Korea Band)
Genre: (but only just), Alternate Reality, Blow Jobs, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, more like a canon divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-17 22:27:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14840345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikeabaroness/pseuds/empiremind
Summary: This is Santiago, not Seoul.





	malo y loco

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by a song everyone (including jinho) seems to be covering. you all know me by now - life isn't complete without a huidawn take on things. based on the premise that pentagon went to music bank in chile in april (they didn't, but what if they had?) enjoy.
> 
> "malo y loco" means "bad (devilish) and crazy." 
> 
> "i knew it when I met him  
> i loved him when I left him  
> got me feelin' like ooh-ooh-ooh  
> and then I had to tell him I had to go ..."  
> (camila cabello)

Hui can move his hips when he has to, but he's not really _that_ good at it; that honor belongs to E'Dawn - to Hyojong - and maybe Kino. But it's not Kino he's watching right now, moving to the music on the patio of a raucous hotel bar. It's night in Santiago, after their last Music Bank performance, and Hui is being inspired, despite the members' hooting and chatter. It's all just noise. 

At the root of things, he's a trifle jealous; Hui knows that Kim Hyojong is a sprite, able to fly on the slightest song in a way that Hui never can, though it does help that he can provide melodies that suit. And yet, the mahogany-flavored music coming from the sound system doesn't seem to weigh him down, despite its seeming gravity. No, he moves with the song, weaving himself into it with a carefree swerve of trim hips and fingers splayed apart, as if to catch the music in his hands. It takes Hui's breath away.

He sips more wine, appreciating the unvarnished happiness in the way Dawnie moves, the flit of a smirk across his thin lips. Dawnie's swaying and moving to music that sounds faintly Cuban by the horns, lost, as lovesick as it may sound, in the dark, moody melody. His arms are raised, and he's twirling around the limited space, his open shirt billowing behind him as the music lifts the tails into the wind. His neck is arched backward, with just enough room for a lover's mouth between slope and collarbone, and Hui longs. 

Just then, Dawn seems to see him for the first time, and Hui sees the usual softness in his eyes, coupled with something darker, more challenging. "Dance with me," he says, offering a hand. 

He smiles, looking away, not replying in words. Dawnie's asked him to 'dance' before, but there's never been a time. Too many people, too many bloody lips bitten silent, too much stigma and taboo and bullshit and too many dreams.

His career means everything to him, and that's the problem. Hui knows this. No one his age should be this driven, not even in South Korea, not even in music. Not without something or someone who's able to talk him down from the ledge and keep him on the ground. Even Hui needs a break at times, and Dawnie's presence has always been restful, no matter whether Hui's angry or afraid or just too overwhelmed to even talk or move or think; there are times even he gets tired of being the managers' angel. But Kim Hyojong is beautiful, at the same time that he's dangerous - he's elfin and ethereal and causes Hui pain. And this is Santiago, not Seoul.

Hui drinks more, and Dawn turns away to dance again, losing interest in placating Hui's nerves. The song has changed now, to something more jazzy, more intimate, and the members have turned away, figuring Dawnie will be Dawnie. Hui closes his eyes, letting the tune carry him away, feeling the muscles in his neck relaxing as he listens to the sweet-voiced Spanish, letting it try and drown the rogue thoughts of doing something thoroughly stupid. That way madness lies; to give in to something as boringly normal as lust, even forbidden lust, just opens too many doors that might not be lockable when they get home. He and Dawnie have always had a spark, but what's a spark compared to seeing your name in blazing lights? 

At first, he thinks he's imagining the body on top of his, but when he opens his eyes, it's still there; fucking Hyojong is in his face, on his lap, smiling at his shock, eyes searching his in time with the music. He's insistent, but not demanding; he's challenging, but not mean. "Come and play a little, _pabo_ ," he murmurs playfully, empty smile somehow finding a way to look perfectly hard to get, spindly fingers gripping the chair's arms around Hui's hands. One or two touch Hui's bruised knuckles, and it's got to be deliberate. 

Hui looks up at his dongsaeng, earthy and smirky and just unbelievably _present_ , and makes a decision, because they aren't at home. "You're fucking drunk," he says, gently pushing Hyojong to his feet and getting up. Hyojong gets that look, about to protest he's sober as a judge, but Hui grabs his arm. Not hard, but pointedly. And he doesn't see the members laugh or whisper as he all but drags Hyojong off the dance floor. Maybe they know. 

They're sharing a room upstairs, but they don't get there; Hui grabs Hyojong's arm again and pulls him into an alcove inside that looks to have once held a pay phone, all but tossing him against the wall. His dongsaeng looks surprised, but pleased - there's a host of emotions on his face that Hui can't quite read, so he doesn't bother trying. Instead, he leans in, looking down his nose at Hyojong, stuck like an insect in flypaper. The kiss is smooth like melted chocolate, but there's heat in it, and before he can rein it in, the rest of him is responding, pinning Hyojong against the wall with one wobbly knee and the weight of his body all pressed in his chest and core. The gasp it wrings from his almost-lover is satisfying, and Hui drops his head to bite greedily against the veins in Hyojong's neck. 

His partner in this endeavor is somehow more and less vocal than Hui had anticipated, all at once; he isn't whining or pleading, but he's gasping, breathing hard into Hui's craned ears, mouth falling open into a half-growl with every bite, every sucking kiss. Hyojong wraps his skinny legs around Hui's torso and his hand around Hui's skull, into his hair, pulling enough to get Hui hissing. Maybe that's what he wants. 

This is a thing now, though; control has been ceded to parts other than Hui's disapproving brain. Dedicated fingers slide under Hyojong's shirt, scratching hard against the surprise abs, and Hui drags his chin back up to kiss Hyojong again, subtle, but bruising, holding Hyojong's quiet yowl in his own mouth. It's all so fucking _stupid_ , to do this, to get _involved_ , to make shit _complicated_ , but he's still pushing, still holding Hyojong against the wall with his own body, still reaching between them to touch and find even as they keep kissing. It's hot as fuck, and he's already sweating, and one of Hyojong's hands reaches down to push an unruly lock of hair away from Hui's gritted jaw. It helps, somehow. 

Eventually he finds his way into Hyojong's pants, reaching roughly in as he slows his bites and kisses, breathing slower, as if to conserve energy. He expects some snide joke from Hyojong, given how long it's taken them to get here - months, even years, if he's honest; too many teasing jokes and late night questions - but there's nothing, aside from a faintly sweet smile across those pretty lips. Hui edges backward, locking eyes with him briefly as he grips Hyojong and starts to stroke. "It's too dangerous to do this at home," he says, pleased to hear his tone is steady. He doesn't ask if Hyojong understands, though; he just knows.

Hyojong isn't talking, anyway; he's putting his legs back on the ground, one hand still in Hui's hair, insistent, but not demanding; he seems to understand that he isn't the one in control here. Or he's just smugly pleased that he's managed to goad Hui into blowing him; Hui doesn't care. He takes a breath and sinks down, but decides on a whim not to get right to business. Instead, he explores - lots of licks and little nibbles, testing Hyojong because he can, and because he is not too proud to admit that when Hyojong breathes out shakily, the way he's doing when Hui's tongue brushes across the underside of his dick, it does things to him. 

He doesn't expect to hear Hyojong again for a while, but eventually he does hear the exhalation, along with a soft, near-desperate, sweaty laugh. "Ah, Hwitaek, you've got the devil in you." 

Hui doesn't reply; if he did, they'd be upstairs, with the door locked and Hyojong tied to one of the crappy pressed wooden beds, but they're sweaty enough right here, right now. He breathes in as he starts to blow Hyojong in earnest, the strains of a song just audible from the rowdy patio, something with guitar and a deep and melancholy chorus. They have to be quiet, but Hyojong's cries are softer, and somehow more erotic for their lack of volume; they're secret, just for the two of them. But they're there, having no pride at all, begging Hui for more with as much passion as there'd been in his airy dancing ten minutes ago. And Hui _loves_ it. 

He still doesn't want this to last too long - it's too much, too slow, and Hyojong gets even more attached. But Hyojong's pulling his hair, praising him, even managing to catch Hui's eye with his own glassy, blown pupils. "... _Please,_ " falls from his mouth like it's been discarded. "Hui, _fuck, please._ " There's more to that prayer than the average idiot might think, but Hui shoves it down somewhere he can't reach and goes back to making Hyojong moan. Claws grip his hair and pull, and Hui's whole body arches into his work. Once, Hyojong moans _really_ loudly, cracked and breaking, and Hui hisses, using the barest hint of teeth to quiet his dongsaeng lest they get caught. 

Eventually, after two minutes or twenty, Hyojong's fingers twitch in Hui's hair, and Hui lets his jaw go slack as best he can, to minimize the gagging when Hyojong spasms and comes, neck melting as the back of his head hits the wall with an audible thunk. When Hui finishes swallowing, he wipes his mouth, ticking his eyes upward and immediately blinking when he sees the fondness staring back at him. Hyojong's sweaty and drained, but he's smiling, almost at rest; peaceful, even. 

Hui turns away, getting his own breath back, feeling the blood creep back up into his own cheeks, away from the erection he's been willfully ignoring since Hyojong's third or fourth whimper. He looks back at Hyojong for a moment, preserving his face, his posture, the scent, the moment - everything - in the amber of his memory, because this is Santiago, not Seoul. And then, he walks away, back down the hall.


End file.
